


Crash

by cjmarlowe



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Masturbation, Other, adrenaline crash, exposure/exhibitionism, kink bingo, outdoors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:04:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjmarlowe/pseuds/cjmarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is only available for Bruce to enjoy when conditions are exactly right. He has to be alone, to maintain control of the situation. He has to be too exhausted to turn back into the Hulk again. It's now or never, till the next change rolls around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crash

Bruce always hurts when he wakes up after an episode, but it's like a remembered hurt, the injuries he should have from battle, the way his bones and muscles should hurt after making and remaking himself. He doesn't have trouble moving or bending, there are no residual aches, but like a phantom limb he remembers where they should be. 

The exhaustion, though, is real; no matter how much rest he gets after turning back, the exhaustion lingers.

He's not sure where he is this time but it can't be that far outside New York. He's on the ground and he sees horses, carefully groomed land, some pretty nice houses distant but visible. The kind of place that says _estate_ rather than rural. Westchester maybe? He closes his eyes for a moment and moves all his limbs, an automatic self-check that invariably tells him that, physically, he's fine. He will always be fine.

He's naked, of course. He doesn't even need to look to know that. Naked as the day he was born and flapping in the breeze—literally this time. Maybe not the flapping, but definitely a breeze on his privates. It doesn't matter whether his clothes landed nearby or not; even the pants won't be in good enough condition to reuse, whether they managed to cling to his body through the battle or not.

He remembers flashes of it, things the Other Guy saw and felt. Even when he can't remember details, he always remembers whether or not everyone else is okay, as if the Other Guy knows to somehow pass that on, through some tenuous conduit in his brain that ties them together. He remembers that they won, and he thinks there was minimal damage. Though it's New York, which is stacked together like dominoes so he's sure he left some kind of new scar on the city.

He's safe. Everyone is safe. If he weren't already so bone tired that he doesn't even really want to sit up, he would relax. But even if his body is ahead of the game, he lets his brain relax back into a drifting state again and doesn't worry about where he is or how to get out of there, not just yet.

He runs a hand down his body, over thick hair and muscles that are firmer than he usually notices in his everyday life, limbs with traces of ash on them, he thinks, or something like it. He wraps a hand around his soft cock and squeezes, lightly, and feels a mild stirring deep inside, a stirring that's less familiar than it once was but at least not _un_ familiar.

After so many bad feelings, so much pain and anger and frustration, it's nice to have this good one too, only available for him to enjoy when conditions are exactly right. He has to be alone, to maintain control of the situation. He has to be too exhausted to turn back into the Hulk again. And those things in combination only ever happen in the recovery period after an...incident. It has to be right now.

His motions are slow and lazy, no hurry to get there, no energy even if there was. (There never will be. That's the secret of his ability to do it at all.) He pulls a knee up, cups his balls and just lets his hand sit there for a few moments while his mind drifts off, half-dozing to the comfortable feel of his hand on his body. He's learned to like it like this, not just endure it like this. These days sometimes he gets turned on just by the act of falling asleep.

It takes a long time to orgasm like this, all the stops and starts, but then that's the point. He never gets overexcited, he never goes too far. He lets his body set the pace and follows it to its natural conclusion. That's what it feels like, following, not driving. Maybe like surfing, if he'd ever surfed—riding a wave that's going to come in to shore whether you're on it or not. Only if he doesn't ride this wave it'll never break, it'll just melt back into the sea and he'll still until the next wave comes in. Whenever that might be.

Bruce feels like he has all the time in the world.

His landing has most likely not gone unnoticed; even in remote areas, which this is not, someone usually sees him fall. So when he thinks he hears footsteps it's entirely possible that he does. It's also possible that it's all in his head, as he straddles the line between consciousness and unconsciousness. Either way, he doesn't open his eyes, doesn't feel a threat in the air which he's hypersensitive to and so doesn't feel the need to bolt. He's not sure he could have even if he wanted to, but then he's dragged himself up and out of far worse situations so he probably could. He just doesn't want to.

If they're going to look, he thinks, then let them look. He hopes they get an eyeful. He hopes...well, he hopes they _don't_ have cameras, but everyone carries a camera in their back pocket these days. He can't bring himself to care enough to stop. 

His cock is hard but not demanding, his motions steady and loose. He feels like he should ache, that his arms or his thighs should ache, but they don't, they just feel heavy. A tingling is growing deep in his belly, gentle and warm. It's possible to be happy without being excited, if you know how. If you let yourself.

He breathes consciously and slowly, the heel of one hand pushing over his abdomen at an angle towards the opposite thigh until it meets his wrist and he lets it rest there. He thinks he's getting close, but sometimes it's hard to tell. There's no shortness of breath, no pounding heart, no driving need to go harder and faster, faster and harder. It can sometimes take him by surprise. The wave crashes before he expects it sometimes, or after, in its own time and in its own way.

He comes on a downstroke, hips jerking and breath catching, palm resting against his tightened balls, right in his nest of hair, as he splashes up over his stomach and chest. Not a lot, not forcefully, but enough to make a mess. He lets it lie, lets his cock soften where it sits, continues to take deep even breaths even as the residual sparks of pleasure go off in his groin.

If he wasn't relaxed already he certainly would be now. He thinks he even smiles, laying there in the grass, naked in someone's pasture and masturbating for god and everyone. His eyes are still closed, and they stay that way until he feels the breeze pick up, feels ready to actually sit up and make his way home again, or at least as far as the nearest saddle blanket to wrap around himself.

When he sits up he sees a paper bag and a stack of clothes nearby, not alarmingly close but close enough. Someone's been and gone, and he's grateful for both things. The bag's full of food and the clothes are about a size too big but that's pretty much how he wears them anyway; both are exactly what he needs. He supposes a phone was too much to ask for, but he can hitchhike back into the city. No need to call Stark for a ride, though he'd probably have one here within the hour. Depending on where he actually is.

He pulls on his clothes and looks around a little more, trying to figure out where his visitor came from, but it doesn't really matter. Either he'll find out on the internet when he gets back, or he won't. He's a long time past shame about...well, just about anything. Playing host to the Other Guy for so many years will do that to you.

Bruce sits in the grass and eats his fruit and sandwiches, then crumples the bag under his arm and starts off for home.


End file.
